The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. His eyes closed. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. Love and companionship. But he had now lost the precise spot; and thinking he had examined the drain, turned his attention to another quarter. It was some time later, after a series of these devastating assaults, that Melusine found herself seated on the sofa lately vacated by Lucilla and Captain Roding, cuddled firmly in the arms of a major of militia reduced quite to idiocy. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him.
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